Whatever Happened to the Caped Crusader?
by Harlecat
Summary: Nothing lasts forever. He sighed, and turned to the figure in the shadows. "Whatever happened to us? Whatever happened to him?" "Him?" "Him." He lit a cigarette. "Whatever happened to the Caped Crusader?" Pretty much what you'd think. He died.
1. Chapter 1

_This is a story I've been planning for awhile, and now I finally know the POV/writing style I want to use for it, and I also have all the details figured out. I will be taking oodles of inspiration from Neil Gaiman's Whatever Happened to the Caped Crusader? as the title suggests, though that's a very different story from this one. However, it is the best Batman comic of all time, so I suggest you read it. That is all, loads of love! ❤Harles._

Chapter One: In which we meet a murderer, this whole mess gets started, and our hero dies.

There are heroes. There are people who show hope to a hopeless world, light to a dark land, people who are blessed and who use their blessings for good. There are people who are gifted, and who share their gifts. Yes, there are heroes.

And then there is Batman. His gift was nothing special; in fact, it wasn't even really a gift, more of a personality trait. That's what all of his gifts were, really. He wasn't blessed with some miraculous power like super strength, inhuman speed, telepathy, or even spontaneous combustion. Batman _did_ have a gift, but that's not important right now; it'll come up later.

It is a common belief that people like Batman, people without the alien-from-a-blown-up-planet backstory or the remarkable abilities, have a death wish. Why else would they dress up and fight crime? People like him had to be reckless, had to think they were immortal, they had to have _some_ reason for risking their life, for not caring.

(Once again, Batman _did_ care, but that's another matter for another time.)

No; people like Batman were often _shockingly_ aware of their own mortality, but they knew that small little things like their own lives didn't matter unless they were making a difference. Wasn't it better to go down a hero than to die alone and unremembered? You weren't important if you didn't act like it. Interestingly enough, many costumed villains made the exact observation, but decided to do something different about it.

Most people just decided their life was worth something if they were important to just one person, and this is perfectly true, but not everyone feels this way. And if everyone felt this way, who would make a difference? Men don't live forever; legends do.

But back to the matter at hand.

Batman was aware of his own life, and of his future death. He didn't know when or where it would take him, or why, but he knew it would come one day. He secretly hoped that before he would get some sort of happily ever after, that one day Gotham wouldn't need Batman, that he could hang up his cape and live the rest of his days in peace, but part of him hoped this would never happen, for personal reasons that aren't currently valid. We will also discuss those later. Batman had the nagging feeling that death _would_ come sooner or later for him, and (rather annoyingly) had the even _more_ nagging feeling that it would be sooner, to the point of reminding himself every night that this might be the last time he breathed.

Batman knew that one day people would ask, _whatever happened to Batman? You know, the world's greatest detective? The dark knight?_

_Pretty much what you'd think. He died._

Death did come for him one night, one dark, stormy night, when he was already injured from one of his more violent battles with one of his more violent villains, and it wasn't the big, flashy, hero's death Gotham- or everyone, really- would have wanted for him, it wasn't the death _anyone_ would expect for him, but it was a death, and death does tend to kill people. Then again, so does life.

I'm getting off track.

It wasn't the Joker that killed Batman (but it was Batman that killed the Joker, in a way, but not that night. Once again, I am getting ahead of myself.). In fact, Batman was killed by a hired gunman whose aim was only seventy percent accurate, and who had never killed a vigilante before. Batman was killed by a teenage boy who lived on the streets and so, for a few hundred dollars, agreed to try to kill Batman. No one ever saw his face, and no one ever found out what became of him after he did what so many failed to do. I could tell you, of course, but that would spoil things. However, I will let you in on one thing: His name was Jackson Jones. His mother had died when he was nine, and he'd never met his father, and would never know his name was Joseph Chill, or that he was the one who'd created the Batman. Jackson just knew that he was going to eat like a king that night.

It was anticlimactic; Jackson aimed at Batman's chin, visible from the rooftop above, and pulled his trigger. He missed, and the bullet hit his heart. At any other time, this wouldn't have done anything, but having just come back from a fight with the Joker, Batman's armor was shredded and mangled, and probably couldn't stop a fly, let alone a speeding bullet.

He was limping out of the alleyway he'd left the unconscious, tied up goons he'd ending up battling while the Joker escaped. At least the _clown_ would also sustain injuries, though Batman was much worse off, because the Joker didn't hold back. He staggered down the street, thinking that he might be able to pick up _his_ trail, and knowing the car was also in that direction. All of his focus was on the Joker. He didn't catch the flicker of movement as Jackson aimed his gun, and barely heard the faint _pop_ as he pulled the trigger. A second later, he had a distant thought: _I should probably _move. He turned, and his tired eyes almost failed to pick up the bullet that was rushing towards him. He dodged, and it landed in his side.

Jackson watched as Batman fell over, and then shot him again, because it looked like he was still moving. He pulled his trigger a third time, then looked through his binoculars. Batman wasn't moving.

His boss, a powerful man, had told him not to take any chances. _"A few shots aren't enough to kill men like him. He's a survivor. He'll keep going if you don't see him die."_

He looked kinda dead.

Jackson shot him again (this one missed his chest and hit him in the leg), and then considered his next orders, which were to dispose of the body, but not to check under the mask.

This was where things got tricky. Jackson, like any sane person, wanted to know who Batman was.

And then Batman stood up, and looked directly at Jackson, who screamed, and ran away, before he was the one who died.

He suddenly realized that Batman had the exact same build as Bruce Wayne, right down to the chin, and when he thought about it, he could _maybe_ see a blue eye through the ruined mask. It wasn't proof, but it was a theory. And it made sense.

_That'd be weird, if Bruce Wayne was Batman_, Jackson though without realizing why. After all, he had no idea that his father had shot Bruce Wayne's parents because he wanted a pearl necklace.

Jackson did, however, have a stray pearl he'd found once when he went into the sewers on a bet; it'd been inside of an old shoe and caked in mud, but he was supposed to bring something back to prove he'd really gone down and risked his life in Killer Croc's territory, and the shoe had to do. The pearl had fallen out later, when he went to throw it away. It very probably came from Martha Wayne's necklace, though no one can be certain, and Jackson didn't even know about Martha's necklace; he would never assume it was yet another odd tie-in to his father's life. He later sold the pearl to a drunkard on the street for much more than it was worth, what became of it is a mystery.

A single, dirty word flashed through Jackson's head and he fled the area.

Batman, meanwhile, struggled to the sidewalk, so that he could lean against the wall, and whisper one word into the voice-activated mini-computer in his belt. His voice was rough, and grated, but that one word brought him hope, and gave him a chance of survival. He said, _"Car."_

And his car came.

But his car wasn't fast enough.

He only had time for a few words in the Cave before he passed out, in front of Alfred and Nightwing's frightened eyes: _"Gunner. Got me from behind; didn't see his face. Probably not anyone we know."_

Alfred helped him up, and over to the operating table, Dick watching, terrified.

The Batman's last words were _"Thanks. How about we have some of those little tea cakes later?"_

Tearfully, Alfred said "Yes, Master Bruce," but he never did get around to making the crumpets.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two: In which our new hero becomes that, after sharing the news.

_Someone's got to tell Jim,_ Dick had thought, staring absently at the cave wall in front of him. He was numb, and he could hear someone he thought might be Alfred crying. It was Alfred, but he never did find out. _Someone's got to tell Gotham._

Commissioner James Gordon rarely got any sleep, especially not since his wife went. He'd been married to Sarah Essen-Gordon, a beautiful woman with a beautiful heart that was no longer beating.

He was trying to get some much needed sleep, when his window was suddenly open, and a man was standing in the shadows. He sat up, figuring that it was Batman

"Commissioner Gordon."

No, definitely not Batman.

"What is it?" Jim asked, standing up and pulling on his robe. He stumbled over to his desk, and started to root through the drawers.

"Batman died. I thought you'd want to know."

Jim dropped the packet of cigarettes he'd pulled out from his desk. _"Dead?_ When?"

"Just over an hour ago. I'm… I'm sorry."

"Jeez." Jim sat down on the side of his bed, taking a deep breath, before he reached over to look for his lighter in his bedside table. _"Jeez."_ He glanced back over at the man, wondering who it was, wishing he could see him. He sounded young.

It was Dick Grayson, also called Nightwing, but he didn't know that.

"Are you sure?"

"Positive. I'm- I- yes. He's dead." It was hard enough for Dick to have come here, he did not feel like discussing the death of someone who'd been like family.

Jim felt a curious stab in his chest and pulled out his lighter. "Who was it?"

"No idea. No one special, just some hired gun who got lucky."

_"Shit. _I can't believe this." Jim rubbed his forehead. "What'll we do without him?"

"I don't know."

Jim sighed. "You know, the city wasn't always like this. I was here as a kid once, and it was great. Good cops, good businesses... It was a good place. I dunno what happened. Once upon a time, Gotham was a great city, with great people. Well, nothing lasts forever." He sighed, and turned to the figure in the shadows. "Whatever happened to us? Whatever happened to him?"

"Him?"

"Him." He lit a cigarette. "Whatever happened to the Caped Crusader?" He sighed again, a trail of smoke vanishing into the air. _Pretty much what you'd expect,_ he thought. "I guess I always knew someone would be asking that, someday."

"You must've known it would end," Dick said, his voice cracking.

"Yeah," Jim closed his eyes. "And how. We couldn't have him forever. I just- I didn't think it could come this quickly."

"Me either," Dick said softly. "So- it's over."

"End of an era."

Dick nodded. Then he was gone.

Jim took another puff of his cigarette.

Down the hall, Barbara Gordon was fast asleep, not knowing that someone who'd helped her through the darkest of times was gone, and that another person who had done the same had, once again, run away from her with his metaphorical tail between his legs.

Yes, Dick Grayson was _terrified_ of Barbara, because he was terrified of everything she symbolized, namely, human emotion that hurt. You would also run scared from a woman who'd turned down your marriage proposal, and who'd also proven herself over and over to be better than you in every way.

The next person Dick contacted was Jason Todd, which took a shocking amount of effort, because Jason Todd also terrified him, but as with Barbara, he would rather die than allow him to find out.

But this wasn't a public figure, this was more or less his brother, so Dick knocked on the door to Jason's apartment and didn't worry about masks or costumes.

Jason opened the door several minutes later, his hair sticking in several directions. "_Dick_? You know it's like, five in the morning, right? It's vigilante bedtime."

Dick stepped into his apartment. "I've got some… bad news."

Jason chuckled, and nodded. "You always bring _that_ along. Want something to eat?" He crossed over to his kitchenette, and opened his fridge. "Maybe a drink?"

"No, but you might."

Jason pulled out a bottle of beer, and frowned at it. "Don't remember buying this." He sat down on his counter and popped it open, then took a long drink. "Sure I can't get you anything?"

"Yes."

Jason lowered his drink, and smacked his lips together. "_Ah,_ need to start getting better brands. I'll bet this is just Ginger Ale somebody stuck under their bed for a decade. What was it you wanted to tell me?"

"Batman's dead."

The bottle shattered on the ground. "Dead?"

Dick nodded.

"Bruce, _dead_? No. I don't believe it. What happened?"

"A gunman."

_"Whose?"  
_

"No clue. No one saw him."

Jason stared at the broken glass on his ground, his eyes mirroring them. They were just as broken.

"Jase, are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, I just- _wow._" Jason looked away. His skin had gone cold, and so had his chest, and he had the distinct feeling in his stomach one get after downing an entire milkshake, without the headache. He took a deep breath.

"I've gotta go," Dick said, after a moment of silence. "Alfred's home alone, and I think Tim's still asleep-"

"Yeah." Jason nodded. "Sure. Sure."

Dick waited a moment, to see if there was anything else Jason wanted to say, but there wasn't, and he left.

After getting Alfred asleep, and after making the decision to tell Tim in the morning, Dick spent a few minutes cleaning up the Cave, and ended up discovering a box of files, with a note to him, saying _Dick- I guess you'll get these when I go. Please, only read your own. _Dick, of course, obliged, because there is an unspoken law among those who are alive about following the wishes of the dead.

_"Dick, I'm making this recording in case something should happen to me. I want to make sure I'm there for you, even when I can't be. If you're watching this, that means that I'm dead, and the first thing I want to tell you is that it wasn't your fault."_

Dick squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his temples.

_Bruce was dead._

_ "I've made lots of bad choices in my lifetime, and bringing you into all of this was possibly the worst and the best. You've been like a son to me, and I don't know how I can ever repay you for that, and all I'm ever going to do is ask more of you. Please forgive me. Now that I'm gone, Gotham needs a protector. Someone to watch over her. I'm entrusting the city to you. Please take good care of it. I don't care if you wear the cowl or not. As Batman, I would prefer it, but as your father, I'd advise you against it. There are more of these recordings, but this is the most important one, because if I really am gone, this might be my only real chance to say goodbye."_

"Don't say goodbye."

_"Goodbye, Dick. And good luck."_

Dick sucked in a deep breath, then buried his head in his hands. He did not know it, but he was putting himself in the exact same position Jason had, and saying the exact same words: "Damn it, Bruce. Don't be dead. Please don't be dead. You can't leave me like this."

At the time, he wasn't sure what he thought of him. No one really was. Now, his feelings are clear, but at the time he loved Bruce for all he'd done, but Dick also hated him for letting himself get killed, for leaving Gotham alone, for leaving Tim and Babs, and most importantly, for leaving him.

Dick had a habit of hating the people he cared about.

Dick looked over at the Batsuit, folded neatly by the computer. It would fall to him to fix it and to put it on display, the armor of a fallen soldier, because Dick wasn't heartless. He wasn't going to force Alfred to do it (of course, Alfred did end up doing it, simply because Alfred always ends up doing everything). Over time, small parts of it have been picked away, just like on the other costumes- for example, the cape in Jason's display is a replacement, because Stephanie had to borrow it once. And eventually, Bruce became a case that wasn't any different, just like every dead man does.

Dick ran a hand over the suit. When he was younger, he'd thought he might become Batman. Expected it, even, fantasized about it. But then lots of things had changed, and he'd become Nightwing, and that was his niche. And he know how cold and lonely Bruce was.

_Was_. It felt strange to associate Bruce with that word.

Dick thought, at the time, that he would never wear the suit.

Things were quiet over the next week. Most of the major criminals seemed to be holding some sort of vigil for Batman. Some of the less _super_ of the villains and quite a few gangs did what they did, and Dick did what he did. By the time a month had passed, Jason was back in Gotham from his time away, and he was killing more gang members than ever.

To put things simply, that pissed Dick off.

_He_ was Gotham's protector, not Jason. And he wasn't supposed to shoot people. If Jason wanted to help Dick, he had to be a hero, not another bad boy gone worse.

Bruce had left a tape in the "Richard Grayson" file labelled _About __Jason._

_"Jason is different from you and me, but his heart is in the right place. He loves you, Dick, he really does. He'd do anything for you. And he's willing to get his hands dirty, though that isn't always a good thing..._

_ "He's willing to do what we won't. He even enjoys it. If there's any advice I have to give on Jason, it's that you _must_ care for him, because that will make all the difference but you can_not _let that come between you should you have to fight him."_

Dick took to listening to the tapes in his room, because he'd promised himself that I would never go in the Cave again, never touch any of those things, the same way a parent would do with their child's room, should they die, at least for awhile.

_"Don't let your feelings get in the way." _That had been and still was Bruce's mantra. He repeated it in every recording the same way he'd repeated it before every patrol. Don't let your feelings get in the way. Dick was starting to consider putting that on his grave, but then he remembered Bruce _had_ a grave, and then he broke down all over again.

Maybe it was because he had inherited his role, or maybe it was just because Dick had so many feelings bottled up inside of him at the time, but he kept repeating it too. _Don't let your feelings get in the way. Don't let your feelings get in the way. Don't let your feelings get in the way._ He thought it before every fight. Because if whatever villain he was fighting even mentioned Bruce, he knew would probably just collapse, sobbing.

Looking back, though, Dick thought it was because he really was hurting, and more than anything, he didn't want to hurt. He wanted it to go away. So I kept repeating the mantra, when he was in costume and when he wasn't. _Don't let your feelings get in the way._ The mask helped. It made him feel invincible, and it made the feelings go away. But the more criminals he punched, the angrier he got, and the angrier he got, the more pain there was to deal with, but he could deal with that if I had someone to blame, and that was a different sort of pain- duller, more like a shot than a long stab.

_ Defeat them. End them. Drag them away. Don't let your feelings get in the way. Fight them. Beat them. Make them obey. Don't let your feelings get in the way._

Don't.

One could say Jason became his other half. He was his villain. Dick obsessed over him the same way Bruce had over the Riddler, Two-Face, and of course, the Joker. He put him in Arkham just as quickly as he broke out, saying "He's killed another drug dealer. He's started another gang war."

Dick couldn't help but wonder just when his brother became the bad guy.

But if Dick thought things were bad for him, he was in _serious_ need of a reality check, because he had been the one to tell the Joker that the news report was _real_, and that Batman really was dead. He'd even pointed out that it was probably his fault, because if it hadn't been for his his extremely violent battle with the clown prince, he wouldn't have been killed with a few simple shots that didn't even hit the right places. Dick wasn't _trying_ to be heartless, just honest, and any sane person would think that the Joker would be a little bit cheered up by the fact that he'd helped kill Batman.

It didn't, and the Joker took off like an upset child. Dick found him by the Gotham River, the same spot he'd run to the night he was fleeing Batman, but this time, he was causing his own wounds, using a batarang that was also from that night, and in the end Dick had to knock him out, because that was the only way to stop him from killing himself.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three: In which the news is reported, Dick is heartless, and Harley cleans up after the Joker.

It had begun with the news report.

It was really just a normal news story, when it came down to it. Just another news story playing on another morning show, in another imperfect household. A young woman was washing dishes in the kitchen, and a man who was a bit older than her was relaxing in front of the television, thinking about the night before and wondering when he'd have another night like _that_ one. Thoughts like that made him smile.

"Hello, Gotham. And g- good morning. I am here to bring you some tragic news." His voice cracked. "Commissioner Gordon has received some... some tragic information that has been proven to be true by sev-several sources. Batman- Batman is dead, after he was shot several times. We have this footage from a store near the area where this shooting took place." The reporter went silent as the footage played. "All citizens are warned that they must be on guard, as there is no Batman to stop any crime, big or small. At four in the morning there was a breakout at Arkham, meaning that Two-Face, Victor Zsasz, the Ventriloquist are now on the loose, not to mention that the Joker, Harley Quinn, Poison Ivy, and Killer Croc were already free. This adds up to _seven_ criminals on the loose. The- the one who killed the bat- We don't know who did it." He bowed his head. "Let's have a moment of silence for Gotham's Dark Knight."

The girl went silent in the kitchen, before sticking her head out of the door to see how _he_ had taken the news. Funny. He was surprisingly calm. He'd bowed his head, and his eyes were closed. _Right, _she thought. _I guess I should do that too._ So she screwed her eyes shut, and tilted her head toward the floor.

"And now, we go to Jimmy Olsen, with a special report on the presidential elections-"

The girl's eyes flew open at the sound of shattering glass. He'd thrown his plate at the television. She raced over. "Mr. J! Your breakfast!"

He didn't notice her. "I want more information! Bring back the lady!"

"They can't hear you!"

"Shut _up_!" The Joker shouted. "That's the worst report I've ever seen! Where are the facts? The evidence? I say they're lying! I say he's alive!"

"She sounded pretty upset," Harley said nervously, picking the broken plate up off the ground. Any rational person was nervous around the Joker when he was in a rage. "Oh! Don't walk over here, there are shards _everywhere_."

"I don't need you to look after me!"

"Of course not. Were you done with breakfast? Do you want a new plate?"

"I'm fine!"

"Oh!" Harley got down on her knees. "You got eggs _everywhere_! What do you think I am? A maid?!" She stood up to see the Joker had sat back down, and was looking intently at the coffee table. "Mr. J? Are you alright?"

"It has to be something big."

"Huh?"

"The crime. To force him out of hiding. It has to be something _big_. Not too big, that'd take months of planning. I suppose we'll have to rob a bank."

Harley knew she wasn't supposed to interrupt him when he got like this, but she had to ask. "Can I help?"

"No. You'll mess it up. Go make breakfast."

"But I already made breakfast. You threw it at the TV."

It just so happened that Harley also knew the Joker found planning crimes easier when he could talk about them and when he _had_ someone to talk to about them, so if he wanted a big crime, chances were he would need a lot of talking.

But the Joker had a different idea. "Then clean up the eggs!"

Harley rolled her eyes and went to get a cloth. She came back and started scrubbing at the cheese on the rug. _He could like ham. He could like bacon. Toast. But no! He has to take his eggs with cheese!_

Once the rug looked clean enough, she sat down on the couch. The Joker was on his laptop, typing furiously. Other than that, it was dead silent.

"Mind if I change the channel?"

He didn't say anything, so Harley went to see if _The Vampire Diaries _was on. It was.

"They're al_ready_ selling collectible Batman Rest in Peace keychains?" The Joker snorted, and moved to show her his laptop. "They'll all feel _so_ stupid when the find out he's alive."

"Mr. J? What if he's really dead?"

"He's _not_ really dead! Don't fucking say that!" He spun back around and started to type again, even more angrily than before.

"But he might be-"

"No!"

She gulped. "You beat him up pretty bad last night- if he ran into someone else-"

"_Be. Quiet!"_

Harley lifted her hands in surrender, and went back to her show. "Whatever you say, puddin."

"Don't call me puddin!"

"Whatever you say, Mr. J." An ad for LexCorp came on. Eventually, the Joker started muttering about things like banks and policeman, and Harley would quietly ask questions, which he answered, and slowly, his plan got even more elaborate, even more tricky. He didn't even realize she was doing it.

He never did realize the things Harley did for her. He never did appreciate them.

Not until it was too late.

He left around nine, and Harley started to get worried when the Joker hadn't returned at midnight. It didn't take _that_ long to rob a bank. Of course, she had no way of knowing her beloved clown hadn't found out it was all some big joke. In fact, the Joker had just encountered the death of one of the few people he actually cared about for the first time he could actually remember.

And Harley didn't stop worrying when there was a knock on the door. She stood up and went to answer it, a bit nervously. After all, there are some lunatics in Gotham. Especially at night.

"Mr. J? Did you lose your keys again?"

She opened the door and saw Nightwing supporting the Joker. He was unconscious, and his left arm was bloody from the batarang cuts he'd just given himself.

"I think this is yours." He started towards the couch.

Harley's voice came out as a shriek. "What did you do to him?!"

Dick shrugged, looking very heartless to Harley, and laid the Joker down. "I just told him the truth." He crossed over to the couch and laid the Joker down. Harley lunged for him, but he stepped out of the way.

"You knocked him out!"

"I had to. It was the only way to get him to stop."

"Stop what?"

He glanced toward the Joker's sleeves. Harley turned around and ran over to the couch. "Mr. J?" She rolled up the sleeves. There were three long gashes in his left arm, and it didn't take a genius to know who had made them. Harley shouted and ran to get a bandage. When she came back, Dick was gone. He had disappeared. He was starting to get good at that. If one stopped to think about it, Dick was already halfway to becoming Batman.

_Once again, he was running away._


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four: In which we receive some news that might be taken as good and some that might not.

The knock came on the door about a month and a half after Batman's death, just after Jason came back, and before the Joker's arrest.

Dick, who was in Bruce's old study at the time, looked up. Several moments later, Alfred appeared in the doorway.

"Miss Kyle," he said, gesturing next to him. At his side was a tall, lithe woman with her dark hair twisted up into a messy bun. Her skin was pale, and she was dressed mostly in black. Dick, who'd been reading, sat his book down. "Hello, Selina."

"I'll get some tea," Alfred said, and left.

Selina sat down on the other side of Bruce's desk. "Hello, Dick."

Dick, who hadn't spoken to her since sometime before Batman's passing, wasn't sure what to say. "It's… good to see you."

"You too."

"You're… looking well." Dick glanced around the study, not wanting to make eye contact.

"You too."

There was a moment of silence, broken by the opening of the door. Alfred entered, and set down a tray, handing them both a cup of tea.

"Thank you," Selina smiled.

"Thank you," Dick echoed.

Alfred excused himself, leaving the two alone. There was silence for a moment.

"I miss him," Selina said suddenly, and met Dick's eyes for a moment. Her gaze was intense, and he looked away- Dick was bad with intense gazes. She also looked away, down into her cup. "I can't- I don't want him to be gone. He can't be, can he? He just… It doesn't work like that." She sniffed. "His belt… he could- he didn't go down easily-"

"I miss him too," Dick admitted, his voice soft. He looked out the study window and almost smiled. Bruce had told him the story once, of how he'd sat in that same chair as him wondering what he could do to fight the crime in Gotham, how he could fight the criminals… when a bat had flown through the window.

_This was where he became Batman._

He looked back, and a tear was trickling down Selina's cheek. He turned his head quickly. If she started crying, he would cry too.

There was another moment of silence, which Selina broke.

"I'm pregnant," she said.

Dick looked back at her, shocked. Her face was wet, but she wasn't crying anymore. Now that he was looking, her dress was looser than normal. She had a hand over her stomach. "How long?"

"Two months." She smiled a melancholy smile at her stomach. "Still waiting for my bump."

"You're positive?"

"Yes."

Dick was quiet. "That's… that's wonderful news. Is it… ?"  
"It's his."

He nodded. "I'm… I'm sorry. Every child deserves a parent."

Selina nodded. "I don't… I don't know what I'm going to do yet. I don't want to get rid of it, but I don't know if I have the money, and even if I did, I'd be a horrible mother…"

"I wouldn't say horrible." She looked so heartbroken, and Dick almost wanted to stand up and hug her. Almost. _Don't let your feelings get in the way. _"We can help you out."

"I don't-"

"Bruce would've wanted me too."

She met his eyes again. "Do you think… If he hadn't…" She took a deep breath. "Would he have ever… married me?"

Dick blinked. _Marriage?_ That was never really something he could see for Bruce _or_ Selina. Selina was just so… free, and reckless, while Bruce was… He was _Bruce. _But…

If Bruce _were_ to get married… well, he couldn't see him marrying anyone else. Except maybe _the night._

"Yes," he said.

Selina gave him a small smile. "When I was little, I thought girls were stupid, for wanting to get married, but then… well, I met him, and-" She sighed. "It's sort of like a promise, I think. You can break it, but…" She scowled. "Or you can abuse it."

Dick nodded again, staring down into his cup. He had yet to take a drink.

Selina bit her lip. After some more forced small talk, she left.

Barbara was waiting downstairs for him, in her makeshift office. Dick still was refusing to enter the Cave. There was a photo on her screen. "Remember this guy?"

"Marcus Roberts," Dick said. "The one who's been giving us information on the drug trade?"

"The one he's apart of."

"Yes. I remember him. Why?"

Barbara zoomed out. The photo she was looking at was an obituary. "Well, he's dead. Killed by-"

"Jason?"

"The one and only. His old gang is putting out quite the prize for anyone who can get him, dead or alive. Thought you might want to get him first."

"I've got to try." Dick shrugged. Barbara nodded. He headed for the door.

"The sun's setting," she said. "Good night."

Of course, Barbara wasn't going to get to bed, she was going to stay up with Dick, maybe even later, because she was the only one who could get him proper information. She was just as much Gotham's savior as him.

"Sleep tight," he said.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**: In which several arrests are made, a minor breakout occurs, and Jason infuriates Dick even more. But first, an article.

The following is a clip from "Odd Arrests" by Victoria Vale, which written almost two months after the death of Batman about the people who were arresting criminals now that the Caped Crusader was gone. It was originally published as a column on her blog, then extended, edited, and made into a news feature for many local papers. It received international attention.

"_I have to say, strangest arrest of all was made just three weeks ago, and didn't nearly get the coverage it deserved. The criminal in question was the Joker. He was driven to Arkham Asylum in a car that was normal in almost every way, if you could look over the missing license plate and the curious dent in the front. He was walked into the building without much of a struggle, though security tapes do show him arguing with his captor, who simply cries and holds onto him. After several halls, he stops arguing and walks slowly and stubbornly, like a toddler who doesn't want to leave the park, his eyes surprisingly empty. Folks, I don't want to feel sorry for a man who probably murdered a relative of yours, but his eyes were wide and sad; it looked like he'd just had his heart broken. For a minute I thought, "wow, what happened to him?" but after some thought, I decided he was upset because Batman was dead. I always thought there was more than a little... gayness between those two._

_ The Joker was taken to the front desk, and his captor tearfully explained what was going on. According to the intern at the front desk and to the higher-quality security camera, the Joker's captor said: "I can't do this anymore. I can't take care of him, I'm not good, enough, I- he needs help, and I can't give it to him. Please, take care of him." They went on to hug a motionless Joker, and to repeatedly say "I'm leaving now, goodbye," before actually exiting the building. They returned several moments later, a guard at their side, and was promptly arrested._

_ After his captor was out of the room, the Joke fell into a visible slump, and was practically carried into his cell. Reports say that he was constantly attempting suicide. He tried to kill himself using his sheet, a pillow, his medication, and a spring from his mattress. He was taken into Arkham's medical ward two weeks ago after he stopped eating, and since then, he's been hooked up to a feeding tube._

_ So who was his captor? Who was the brave soul who managed to get the Joker into Arkham, who thought they weren't doing a good job of taking care of him- even though they'd kept him alive- and who was also arrested?  
Well, folks, it was Harley Quinn._

_ We might never know for sure why she did what she did, but it doesn't take an idiot to read the words "he needs help, and I can't give it to him" and "constantly attempting suicide" to put two and two together._

_ She isn't the only criminal making arrests. The Red Hood, a brutal vigilante who has recently come into town after a while away, might be known for his violent justice, but even he has stepped up to fight the good fight, and arrested Harvey Dent, more commonly called Two-face, last week, followed by Killer Croc and Clayface."_

By chance, Harley had a cell near the front desk, and she woke up one morning to hear distant laughter and a low voice, accompanied by two figures who'd just entered Arkham.

Her first, sleepy thought was: _It's Mr. J! And Batman! _and she looked up excitedly before remembering that the Joker was already in Arkham and that Batman was supposed to be dead.

_Batman's still alive?_

No, now that she was focusing, she could see that it was just Nightwing, and he was dragging a beaten up boy behind him. _The Red Hood. _Harley tilted her head.

Jason grinned at the guard, showing a split lip, and waved his hand. Because his wrists were cuffed together, both of his hands rose into the air.

The intern at the desk looked up, and the guard next to him smirked. "Look who's back."

"Hey, Danny!" Jason waved again, and beamed at Dick, who gave an exasperated sigh.

"What'd he do this time?" the intern asked. Dick clenched a fist.

"Blew up a building."

"And stopped a strong drug trade."  
"Killing several innocents in the process."  
Jason's smile vanished instantly. "That wasn't supposed to-"  
"I think we're done here."

"You don't have to be like that, _dickhead._"

Dick curled his fists tighter, and stormed out of the building. Jason felt Harley's eyes boring into him, and turned. He gave her a half smile, and mouthed the words _Hey babe._

"Keep that up," said Harley. "And both of your eyes'll be bruised."

"I like it rough, doll."

Harley stuck out her lower jaw, and looked away. He was _infuriating_.

The guard started to walk Jason down the hall. He almost laughed. "Not tonight, babycakes." Before the guard could react, he flipped over his head. He landed clumsily, on his twisted ankle, but turned and raced for the door. He winked and pointed to Harley, who flipped him off.

Jason sprinted out the front door and off of the property before he caught up with Nightwing. Dick was surrounded by several masked thugs. Jason jumped into the fray. "Good ta see ya!"  
"What're _you_ doing here?"

"Saving your ass!"

_"I don't need you!"_

Jason ducked a blow, and threw the guard into a wall, pulling out his gun. Dick heard him jerk it out of safety, and turned.

_"No!"_ Dick knocked the gun away. Jason frowned at him.

"I was _using_ that, honeybear!"

"Shut up!" Dick swung at one of the last thugs, and then Jason, who jumped back.

"Asshat," he muttered. "Whose were they, anyway?"  
"Black Mask's. I had it under control." This was, of course, a lie. Had Jason not come along, Dick's back up would have had to send… well, back up. "And _asshat_?"

Seeing the look on Dick's face, Jason lifted up his hands, and said "Fine, fine, I'll go back, _sheesh_." Dick promptly knocked Jason out and re-arrested him for the third time that week. It had reached the point where they both would do _anything _just to annoy the other. Dick's backup called it "Batman and Joker junior."

Dick's backup happened to have a name, but because he was _terrified_ of his backup, Dick tended not to use it. This might have also been because he was a bit embarrassed about the fact that he needed backup at least seventy percent of the time, especially when Bruce hadn't. When he needed information of any kind, he needed his backup almost ninety percent of the time, and he found this even more shameful.

It couldn't have helped that this backup was his ex-girlfriend. The one who'd rejected his marriage proposal and was _constantly_ showing herself to be better than him.

_Barbara Gordon._ Former Batgirl, before she became the world's greatest hacker, and the _best_ of them all: the beautiful, gifted, dazzling Oracle.

It also couldn't have helped that Dick was madly in love with her.

Of course, Dick didn't realize this, partially because he had managed to convince himself she was the most annoying girl on the face of the planet, and because he was still missing one of his childhood girlfriends-turned-friend, who was on the other side of the country. He was also caught in the middle of an almost relationship with another girl, who we do not need to mention yet, because she still hasn't involved herself with Dick or the story. And then there was the marriage proposal.

The notorious proposal had taken place several years before the death of Bruce Wayne, a few months after Barbara had been put in her wheelchair. Dick had returned from the other side of the country (after spending several years with his friends there) and had, slowly, fallen in love with Barbara again, and when he realized this, he also realized he didn't want to wait. Eventually, he worked up the nerve to ask her to marry him, and was heartbroken when she said no. One of the main reasons she cited was the fact that _yes_, they had dated for awhile several years back, but she was a different person now, and could see that he was too, and it would take some time to "get to know each other again." Dick had agreed, and waited a week before asking her out to dinner, then a movie, then coffee. She politely declined all of his offers, and eventually, he stopped asking.

The real reason she'd turned him down the first time, and all the times after that, had nothing to do with her feelings for Dick or wanting to get to know _anyone_. The _real_ reason had everything to do with the chair she was always sitting in.

She was also slightly jealous of him, because he had started flying when he was a boy, and was still flying. She had only flown for a few years.

Dick, though he claimed otherwise, was still very upset about this.

Dick was also very upset about Jason, and not in a good way, more of a I-can't-believe-you're-for-real-seriously-can-I-just-kill-you-please kind of way. Maybe comparisons have been made between their relationship at this time and that of Batman and the Joker.

So that night he arrested Jason again and went home.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six:** In which there is an argument and an arrangement.

"I want to turn off the TV," Dick said.

Barbara, who was watching the TV, ignored him.

"Turn it _off_, Babs."

"No way, Dickhead. They're playing _Buffy_."

"Turn. It. Off."

Barbara, surprised at the anger in his voice, turned down the sound and spun her chair to look at him. Dick was sitting at his desk, his head in his hands.

"Dickhead, are you okay?"

"I'm _fine_," he snarled, without turning around.

Barbara raised her eyebrows. "You don't _look_ fine. _Or_ sound fine." He sat straight up. "Dick-"

"I said _I'm fine_!"

Barbara lifted her hands in surrender. "Okay, okay. You're fine." She turned the sound back on. An ad for LexCorp was playing. She took a deep breath. "So," she began. "How've things been?"

Dick was silent for a moment before answering. "Busy."

"I can imagine."

"Yeah."

Babs nodded. "New CEO of Wayne Enterprises. More or less the official vigilante of Gotham. Running the Manor. Course, it's not too crowded now… am I rambling?"

Dick didn't answer.

"Right," Babs said. "So…" The phone started to ring. Babs glanced around. "You gonna answer that, or…?"

Dick sighed dramatically, and stood up. He crossed the room over to the phone, and answered. "Hello?" he snapped.

_"__Am I speaking to Richard Grayson?"_

"Yes. I'm busy, what do you want?"

"You're not _busy_," Babs said.

_"__My name is Clarice Emerson, I work at Arkham Asylum?"_

"Uh huh."

_"__I was… well, I have a job that's supposed to help inmates with returning to normal life, so I barely work, but I was hoping to set up a meeting with you and one of my doctors?"_

"Why?"

_"__Your father, Bruce Wayne, was quite…_ invested_ in some of our inmates, so we would definitely like your professional opinions. Shall I set up the meeting?"_

Dick shrugged. "Sure."

_"__Would you mind if an inmate was in attendance? I can assure you that they'll be well-behaved, and won't disturb you."_

"Okay." Dick could probably handle any inmate if they decided _not_ to be well-behaved.

_"__Awesome! Thanks, I'll set it up. Can I call you back with some possible dates?"_

"Alright."

_"__Do you have someone I should talk to about when you're busy, or…?"_

Dick held out the phone. "Babs?"

Barbara, who had been reading her book, glanced up. "Right." She took the phone. "Hi? Oh, yeah. Sure, I guess. Hang on, let me check my calendar. Ha! Yep, that just about sums him up. Hang on. Oh… Well, if he agreed. Sounds good. Thank you!" She tossed the phone back to Dick, and he scrambled to catch it. "Monday you've got a meeting at ten o' clock."

"In the _morning_?"

"Duh."

"Babs! _Really?_ Do you expect me to get up at ten, _work_ all night, go to bed at _five in the morning_, and then get back up for an appointment? That's barely four hours of sleep!" Barbara, who had not slept for two days, glared at him. Dick did not notice, and went on. "And _that's_ assuming I can get to sleep! Do you know how hard it is to rest once you've been staring at a computer for an hour? And that's _exactly_ what I do when I finish _saving the whole city!_" Barbara, who spent almost all of her time using computers _for_ Dick, scowled at him again. Once more, he did not take notice. "My job is exhausting! And you don't. Effing. _Get it._"

"Stop whining about yourself," Barbara said, and turned back to her laptop.

"I'm not _whining_, Babs! I am stating a _fact._"

She clenched her fist, and felt her nails dig into her palm. She made a mental note to clip them soon, if she had time. "You're being a dick, Dick."

"Oh! I bet you think you're _so_ funny."

"I'm _serious._" Babs narrowed her eyes. "You're being a goddamn jerk, and I want it to stop."

Dick glowered at her, and sat down. "Oh, well _fuck you_. Sorry you've got to deal with such a _whiny, bitchy_ little boy."

"I never said that, you ass." Barbara slammed her laptop shut. "I'm gonna take a nap."

"Right, you must be so tired."

Barbara stormed out of the room, and headed towards an upstairs bedroom. She set her laptop onto the desk, dropped onto the bed, and was asleep after five minutes of furious thinking.

Dick flopped onto the couch, muttering about the annoyances of computer hackers, before realizing _oh, computer_ and _shit, she actually _needed _a nap._ After a five second mental debate, he decided that it was better not to disturb her. The debate lasted five seconds because he did not _want_ to disturb her, nor did he particularly care. Dick, as is plain to see, no longer possessed the caring traits that once defined him. One should not let their feelings get in the way.

_"__I'm Lex Luthor, and I approve this message."_

The next Monday, Dick dressed himself in a simple suit with a silk tie, and was driven to Arkham Asylum by Alfred. He forced a cheerful smile onto his face, and pinched his cheeks.

"It doesn't look _too_ fake, sir. Just try not to look at anyone for too long."

He gave Alfred a half-smile. "Just let me get into business mode." He closed his eyes. "Good. See you soon." Dick got out of the car, and waved before heading toward Arkham.

He was greeted by a guard at the front door. "Are you Richard Wayne?"

Dick shook his hand. "Grayson, and yes."

"Right this way, sir." The guard flipped up his helmet, and lifted his radio. "Mr. Grayson is here, I'm taking him to Emerson's office."

_"__Copy that."_

Dick glanced at the guards positioned along the walls, all of them equipped with kevlar, helmets, tasers, and radios. "Security's certainly gotten tighter."

"It sure has. We're under new management, they halved us guards and hired a whole new crop."

"Is that so?" Dick raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Dunno, but hey, there were a lot of corrupt officials. At least the Wayne money's gonna pay good people, right?" They turned off from the hallway, and started to head down another one.

"I suppose. What about the doctors?"

"Most of them stayed. But hey, this place has a reputation." The guard shrugged. "They also kept a lot of the nurses, it's near impossible to hire them."

"Why's that?"

"My guess? They see a _lot_ more of the inmates. There's this one nurse who-"

_"__Violent behavior from 226 in sector five, guards 340 and 445 to report."_

The guard looked guiltily at his radio. "Sorry about that."

"226?" Dick asked.

"Yeah, the prisoner with that delegation. Killer Croc."

Dick nodded. "Well, he _is_ violent."

"Sure is. This is Clary's office." The guard opened the door.

"Thanks." Dick headed inside. The office was a little cluttered, but nice. There was a poster on one wall that said _Anything is possible if you believe!_ over a picture of two kittens playing with a ball of bright blue yarn. Dick couldn't help noticing that there was no doctor or inmate in the room.

Clary Emerson, a petite young woman with ruler-straight reddish brown hair, stood up to shake his hand. "Clarice Emerson."

Dick smiled. "Richard Grayson. What was it you wanted to talk to me about?"

"I'm working on finding a home for a former inmate, possibly two. Please, sit." Dick sat down in the chair across from her, and Clary did the same. "Now, Mr. Grayson-"

"Please, Dick."

"Well, _Richard,_ as you know your father- that would be Bruce Wayne- was a proud patron of Arkham, and worked very hard to fund our rehabilitation programs. He was particularly interested in helping the criminals we have here."

Dick chuckled. "He certainly was."

"I was wondering if you shared the same sympathies?"

Dick was taken aback, to put things simply. He considered this for a moment. "I suppose I do."

"Excellent. Now, there was an inmate Mr. Wayne was… _very_ interested in. He was always willing to donate money for their cause, and I'm happy to say they've been fully rehabilitated."

Dick wanted, of course, to ask which inmate it was. There were so many possibilities- Two-Face, Joker, Scarecrow, Riddler… Which could be rehabilitated? The words _Arkham_ and _sane_ simply did not go together. "Fully?"

"Yes. There are a few issues, but nothing like before. Some mild depression, but that's to be expected when adjusting to the real world. And _adjust_ is what we need them to do. Come, walk with me."

Clary stood up, and opened the door for Dick. The two passed by the guard, who nodded at them. Dick nodded back. The two never saw the guard again, as he was promptly called up to deal with Killer Croc. He was on "vacation" for the next several months, and when he was healed, he decided it would be better for his health not to return.

Clary took Dick down a hallway. "Because they need to adapt they will, needless to say, need a place to live. I got to talking with several of the doctors and, well… you came up."

"What are you saying?"

She bit her lip. "It's just… well, we're under new management, and my sector isn't getting the same amount of funding we used to. And you've got that nice, big manor.

"I think I see where this is going."

"Trust me, Richard, when I say that this inmate will _not_ harm you."

"You said one or two inmates."

"Yes, well… one of them… it's rather complicated, would you be willing to consider it, at least?"

Dick inhaled. _What would Bruce say?_

_Babs is in the Manor. _I'm_ there. And Alfred…_

"I probably would."

Clary smiled, relieved. "Wonderful. We can talk things over with him and his doctor, if you'd like. Right through this door." She opened it for him, and he stepped through.

He should have seen this coming. Of _course_ it would be him.

The Joker didn't look particularly intimidating. He wasn't in a straightjacket, but his hands were cuffed to the table. He was staring at a patch of ceiling, looking unfocused, and a lock of hair hung into his eyes. His orange shirt had shorter sleeves, so Dick could see the scars running up and down his arms.

Scars that were new.

Harley was sitting next to him, looking very concerned. She was also cuffed to the table, and was drumming her fingers against it, looking around quickly.

Dick's first thought was that she looked like a frightened rabbit, and he almost snorted. What did that make the Joker? A sleepy snake?

Clary gestured to an empty chair at the table, and he sat down. Clary sat down next to an Indian woman holding onto a clipboard, who he supposed was Harley and the Joker's doctor. He was correct.

"Mr. Grayson," the woman began.

"Dick."

Clary hissed _"Richard"_ to the doctor. Dick ignored it.

"Richard," the doctor went on. "I assume you've heard of my patients?"  
Dick nodded. "I have."

"Needless to say, though, you've heard only the bad. Well, I am happy to tell you that they have been fully rehabilitated, and- I-" She glanced over at the Joker, and elbowed him. He started and glanced at her, Clary, Harley, and finally Dick in pure surprise.

For one terrifying minute, Dick was positive that he recognized him.

"My colleague and I have been looking for a home for the two, and we discussed your manor, and your father's interest in the two… would you be willing to temporarily take them under your wing? I assure you, it will be at no personal risk."

Harley nodded, and the doctors gave the Joker a sharp look. He had been staring at the ceiling again.

He jumped. "Right. Yes. None. There's a spot up there that looks like a teacup. Don't let Jervis in." It was Harley's turn to give him a sharp look. He raised an eyebrow at her, returning her look with one of his own. It clearly said _What? Teacups!_

"I'll have to think about it," Dick said.

The doctor nodded. "Of course."

Clary stood up. "Since you're here, I'll give you a quick tour. You'll see that your father's money is going to good use."

"That sounds great, but my chauffeur is waiting outside. Maybe next time."

"I can show you-"

"I know how to get out." Dick closed the door behind him, and headed towards the front door. He smiled at the intern at the front desk, and headed outside. Alfred was, indeed, waiting.

"Did they but it, sir?"

"More or less." Dick sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. "They want the Joker and Harley to move in."

"To the Manor?"

"Ye_p_."

"Goodness."

"You said it. They _say_ they're fully rehabilitated, but-"  
"You don't buy it."

"How could I?" Dick closed his eyes, and pressed a hand to his temple. "Arkham… God. Did you know they're under new management?"  
"So I've heard. I saw a news special the other day, and thought it warranted some research."

Dick straightened. "What did you find?"

"Not much. It's very hush hush, but as far as I can tell, it's because there's not much to talk about. Some rich fellow bought it, because they were sick of lunatics killing people."

Dick frowned. "What's your gut say?"

"My _gut?_" Alfred also frowned as he considered this. "It seems true to me. I don't know if we have the whole story, but maybe there isn't one."

"Maybe. I'll have Babs look into it. Anything else I've missed?"

"Well, a new political party's formed. The Industrialists."

"Funny name. They nominate anyone for the elections?"

"Not that I can tell, but who knows."

Dick looked out the window. Tall buildings flashed by. "Alfred, what should I do?"

"Do?" Alfred furrowed his brow.

"With the Joker. Would you be… _comfortable_ knowing he was in your house?"

"_Your_ house. And no, but there are locks and keys to keep us safe."

Dick bit his lip. He would have to talk to Barbara.

"You _would?_"

Barbara paused, and pulled a blue freezer pop out of her mouth. "I thaid yeth." Her tongue was numb.

"But he… he…"

"I know whath he thid, Thickheath. And I thaid yeth. I mean-" She bit her lip to get some feeling back, and went on. "It'd be weird, but I can always electro-lock my door. Or, you know, barricade it. Or, you know, not do any of that because I don't live here."

"Right. But you-"

"I'm down _here._ In a _cave._ With the fanciest defense system in, like, the world." She stuck the freezer pop back in her mouth. "Anth I thon'th think I'm the one you thould be athking abouth this."

"Well, who _thould_ I ask?"

Babs raised an eyebrow. "Thason."

"Right, sure. Do me a favor, and look up the Industrialist Party. And Arkham's new management."

"Are you telling the thoctor person yeth?"

Dick stormed out.

He told the doctor person yes.

After her appointment with Dick, Clarice Emerson returned to her office for her next appointment of the day. She was five minutes late, due to the Killer Croc incident, but strode in confidently, sweeping her hair up into a ponytail as she went.

"Well, look who's shown up. You're not usually late, Clary."

"That's Doctor Emerson during meetings. Now, I'll thank you to get out of my chair."

Edward Nigma grinned up at Clary from her desk chair. "First one here gets the chair, deal?"

"Out."

Eddie smirked, tipped his hat, and stood. "My apologies." He dropped onto the couch in the corner, and swiped a rubber ball off the nearby table. He tossed it into the air and caught it effortlessly.

"I don't think you need anything to fiddle with."

"I like fiddling." Eddie started to whistle, and tossed the ball higher. "Great minds need small distractions."

"How poetic." Clary sat down at her desk and found her notebook, the one that said _Riddler_ on the cover. "How've things been?"

"Eh, alright."

"Any new cases?"

"A big one. Been working on it for awhile."

Clary nodded. "Who's the client?"

"Well…"

Clary sighed. "We've been over this, Eddie. It helps when you make money doing your job."

"Mm-hmm." Eddie threw a ball a little higher in the air, coming just short of the ceiling. "It's a big one, but no one's working at it. And the whole client thing would just make it con_fus_ing, trust me, Clare."

"Dr. Emerson. And Eddie, _please_ don't tell me this _case_ of yours involves Batman."

"Of course not," Eddie lied. He tossed the ball upward. It smacked off the ceiling, and he flung out his arm to catch it before it collided with the ground.

Clary frowned at him. Because she was not an idiot, she recognized that Edward Nigma was quite possibly the greatest private detective in Gotham.

He was also desperate for work, whether or not it paid.

"Are you sure you don't want a part-time job? I have a friend who-"

"I'll stop you right there, _Doctor_."

Sometimes, Clary _really_ wanted to hit Eddie in the face.

She refrained, and was rewarded with a sly smirk from him, that caused her to triple her efforts.

"Any other news?" Clary asked.

"I hear _you've_ got some. New boss, huh? How's the big guy holding up?"

Clary raised an eyebrow, and went back to her notebook.


End file.
